July 30, 2010

It's not that nothing interesting is going on. My lands, things are interesting. It's just that there's this conference coming up, and most of what I've been focused on has to do with this conference, and I sort of can't talk about it. Because your head might explode, and I don't have nearly enough liability insurance on this blog for brainz.

Also, I don't want to write a packing post, because really, that would make you stick a fork in your eye, wouldn't it? I did pull out a large suitcase at least four days ago. It sat in the foyer for an additional three days until I carried it up to our bedroom. Where it sits, unopened. But I totally intend to do something about that this weekend, because I leave next Wednesday and Monday and Tuesday, well, we just know how that is going to go. I promise you I will not tell you what I am going to wear, because you don't really care. You might pretend you do, but you don't. My sole goal in choosing what to wear is finding things that don't show underarm sweat, panty lines or any area of my thighs. They are simple goals, and typically easily achieved with the correct amount of thought as to the elements, proximity to other sweating people and the need to ruin any cute outfit with an ugly cardigan when the air conditioning is cranked up too high. I am not known for my style, and it's incredibly liberating.

And then there's my girl, who is suddenly afraid of the dark and needing of new clothes and school supplies so that she can be a first grader, but for all my wish to catalog and photograph every move of her six-year-old hippie summer, I also realize dude, the child can read, even cursive, even my cursive, and also? She needs her privacy. Sure, I can tell the occasionally cute anecdote, but the deep conversations we have more and more frequently are not for the Internet.

Also? I haven't left my house except to go to the gym or the drug store or the gas station or to pick my daughter up from summer camp all week. I tried to convince Beloved to go out to eat last night, but he wanted to mow the lawn. Which, I suppose is good, a) because I didn't have to do it in this steam bath we call "Missouri" and b) I'm trying to heal the raging blisters I gave myself from jogging sans socks on Monday, stupid Rita, stupid Rita, before BlogHer and c) I totally did not want to mow the lawn myself.

When you don't leave the house, you should write about what's in the house, but what's in the house is my job, which I have been stuck to with laser focus until 9:30 or 10 p.m. every night this week. And oh, Lord, it is interesting. But I can't talk about it. Don't you hate it when people say that? I do. But it's true.

I know, I know, I need to get a life. But the thing is that next week I will be having a bursting life, one filled with new knowledge and new faces and I get to speak and sign my book (right after my panel, Friday at lunch in the bookstore, and Stacy Morrison will be signing with me!) and see people I haven't seen in a year, and for the first time, Beloved is coming with me to see for himself the utter magnificence that BlogHer has become. For the first time, he'll get to meet my co-workers and the bloggers I talk about incessantly, some of whom he knows through Twitter. I am so excited to have him along, because truly the only downside of BlogHer has always been missing home and in my excitement sometimes forgetting to check in and then feeling horrible if I miss something at home and feeling guilty he is doing everything while I flit around enriching my brain and stuff while he's scrubbing toilets. This year Ma and Pa are coming to watch the little angel, and they won't feel obligated to scrub toilets -- they'll just enjoy their granddaughter and go out to eat and hang with Petunia and stuff.

So this week is the nonlife before the life. You know? But I'm really glad it's Friday and this weekend will be full of summer -- it's slipping away so fast -- and swimming pools and lakes and grilling out and friends.

July 28, 2010

There's a fascinating article in the August issue of Wiredabout this very Old Testament-looking scientist named Robert Sapolsky who is working on a vaccine-like treatment for stress. It seems he hung out with baboons for a while and figured out that social rank causes stress, and stress causes physical problems. The less rank you have, the skinnier and sicker you are. Or fatter and sicker, if you're a human. Whatever. Low social rank = physical problems caused by emotional stress.

Michael Marmot of University College London has been studying British civil servants in the Whitehall study for the past 25 years. From the article:

"The differences are dramatic. After tracking thousands of civil servants for decades, Marmot was able to demonstrate that between the ages of 40 and 64, workers at the bottom of the hierarchy had a mortality rate four times higher than that of people at the top. Even after accounting for genetic risks and behaviors like smoking and binge drinking, civil servants at the bottom of the pecking order still had nearly double the mortality rate of those at the top."

That's a little disconcerting. There's not so much you can actually do about where you fall in the pecking order at work. I mean, you can try, but, um, it's the recession.

Another quote:

We tell our kids that life isn't fair, but we fail to mention that the unfairness can be crippling, that many of us will die because of where we were born. This is the cruel trick of stress: If it were only a feeling, if there were only the despair of having no control or the anxiety of doing without, then stress would be bad enough. But the feeling is just the trigger. We are the loaded gun.

As someone who struggled with anorexia and other eating disorders for years, I can tell you the desire to exert control over your life can absolutely kill you. I'm fairly lucky it didn't kill me. The mind is a powerful thing -- way, way more powerful than we humans have been giving it credit for over centuries of medical improvements.

So what can you do if you have little control over your situation at work or wherever it is that is stressing you out? The article recommends not fighting, meditating, making friends -- the same stuff everyone tells you. I don't think that gets to the heart of the "I have no control" part of the situation.

I say embrace it. I have no control. So what? Does that make my impact on the people around me less important? Do I have nothing to contribute just because I'm not in charge? And would I really want to be in charge, really? And who's to say I won't be in charge, eventually? If there's anything I've learned in my career, it's that things can change rapidly. You just never know who will end up on the top of the dog pile.

Also: I have no control. Why hang out with anyone who's going to rub my face in that? Why hang out with someone who's constantly comparing our parenting skills, our outfits, our lawns? I'm not saying don't be friends with people who have more social rank than you, but don't be friends with toxic people. You know who I'm talking about. Everyone has a bad day. Some people have a bad day every day, and they want you to, too. I went through periods of anxiety and depression when I was that toxic person. If you are, get help. It's not just in your head -- it's in your body, too.

Even if I'm never in charge, I still have a lot of influence over my impact on other people -- whether they find me pleasant or unpleasant to be around, whether I make them laugh, whether I give something to think about when they read my blog, whether I bring calm or anxiety with me when I walk into a room. Those things I can work on. Those things I do work on. Which makes me feel less stressed.

I've found my stress to be directly connected to my perception of my own control over the situation. So, ironically, thinking about how I have no control, really, in the space/time continuum really chills me out. I feel less pressure to fix everything.

Here are some things that help me get a better sense of my own significance.

Check out these pictures by Justin Quinnell taken with a soda can and a pinhole -- they record six months of the sun's travel from solstice to solstice over someone's grave. I know, it sounds weird. It sounds totally depressing. But we do know that we all die eventually, right? Whether or not that is stressful depends on your point of view. I find them calming. I don't want to be dead yet. But eventually, I will die, and life will go on. I can't mess everything up, really, I can't.

Also, this. Sean Stiegemeyer's stop-action filming of the Icelandic volcano eruption in May. I wrote about it a while back -- the fact that the earth still decides to erupt a volcano whenever it wants to whether or not we want to fly our airplanes to Europe triggers calm in me. People, silly people. How tenuous our existence. How fortunate our existence.

(Ed note: This article is one of the reasons I believe in print publishing. It's really, really long. I would never read it on a screen, except maybe the lightless screen of the Kindle or nook. But long-form articles make you think, and think and think. We need them in this world. Support long-form publishing in whatever shape it takes in the future and the talented writers who come up with sentences like the last one I quoted, which, damn, I wish I wrote.)

July 26, 2010

"Look, Mommy!" she called, pausing to drain the water from her goggles. "Watch me!"

I looked over in shock as my child, the same child who at the beginning of summer refused to even attempt a dog paddle, the same child we've tirelessly attempted to get to swim for the past four years to no avail, dove for princess diving rings and orca dive sticks at the bottom of a friend's pool.

She surfaced, a ring and a stick in her hands. "Doubles!" she called.

We were at this pool maybe a month ago, and my girl didn't remove her life jacket once. Somewhere in the last few weeks, a switch has flipped, and she is well on her way to being a swimmer, a child who can take care of herself in the water. Soon I will be able to convince the part of my brain prone to anxious obsessions that she is just fine, stop worrying -- another recurring nightmare can be at least logically put to rest.

People will try to tell you that if you give your baby enough repeat exposure to water, she will grow up without fear. This is complete and utter bullshit. Love for water, confidence in water = personality trait.

Our experience went like this:

Zero years old -- hates the bath. Hates the pool. Scream, scream.

One year old -- screams while being bathed. Spends time in multiple baby pools but screams if we get anywhere near the big pool. Tubes in ears.

Two years old -- will tolerate baby pool, screams when water gets anywhere near face at swimming lessons in the big pool. Like, trying to choke me screaming while the kids a year younger than her laugh and laugh.

Three years old -- baby pool city. Huge success when she will immerse entire body and allow part of hair to get wet. At this point we've moved to Chateau Travolta and are taking her swimming every weekend during the summer.

Four years old -- group swimming lessons, screams and cries while my heart breaks into a million pieces. Never puts face in. Swimming pool every weekend. She goes in wearing a life jacket AND an inner tube.

Five years old -- private swimming lessons, allows face to go under water, comes up spitting and crying Every.Single.Time. Swimming every weekend. Major success when she will allow us to let go of her while wearing life jacket. (end of summer last year)

Six years old -- camp swimming lessons, swimming in a friend's pool surrounded by same-age encouragement, extended swim time with friend in swim team, bit of peer pressure. Starts off summer only in life jacket, has yet to jump off side of pool and immerse. (May) Proceeds to floaty with no life jacket (June), proceeds to water slide on flotation device with no life jacket (June), proceeds to willingly submersing for a second (June), proceeds to going down tube water slide with life jacket (July), proceeds to dog paddle (July), proceeds to front float with kicks (July), proceeds to dive stick thing (July).

If your kid won't swim, keep trying. But don't let anyone tell you that you can train your baby to be a fish. It can take, um, six years of repeat expsoure to get her to put her head in the water.